Who Tells Your Story
by lizzzsunshine
Summary: Death is inevitable when the world is at war, but what of those remaining when the smoke clears? A series of one shots spanning across generations. Canon pairings.
1. Chapter 1

**Who Tells Your Story**

* * *

Let me tell you what I wish I'd known  
When I was young and dreamed of glory:  
You have no control  
Who lives, who dies, who tells your story.  
—History Has Its Eyes On You, _Hamilton the Musical_

* * *

 **Chapter 1: He Beat You**

* * *

Ron, however, spoke to Black.  
"If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill us too!" he said fiercely, though the effort of standing upright was draining him of still more color, and he swayed slightly as he spoke.  
 _—Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban,_ J.K. Rowling

* * *

"I can't fucking find him, Hermione!" Ron bellowed as he watched his best friend—his first love, maybe, hopefully, the love of his goddamn life—round the corner of the corridor at a full sprint. Tear tracks streaked her soot-blackened face and her singed curls were even more wild than usual, seeming to spark with unspent magic.

"He wasn't in Dumbledore's office," Hermione spluttered breathlessly as she skidded to a halt in front of him where he stood at the top of the marble staircase. "I thought for sure he'd be there. For the Pensieve. Maybe we missed him—"

Her speech was jerky, and Ron knew from experience that she was on the verge of hyperventilation. He reached out to steady her, grasping her upper arms tightly. The panic coursing through him was reflected equally in her eyes.

Though the two of them often disagreed, they had spent months, years even, completely united in one task— _help Harry and keep him safe._

And now they'd bloody _lost_ him?

"Fuck," Ron muttered, scrubbing his hand across his face and wincing as he disturbed a fresh gash on his cheek. "I checked with Ginny, but she hasn't seen—"

" _Harry Potter is dead."_

Ron's words were drowned out by a very familiar icy voice.

The sheer thunderous power of the sentence seemed to shake the already cracked walls of the ancient castle. Ron ignored Hermione's cry of terror and actually had to stop himself from snorting in disbelief.

Harry Potter?

Dead?

Un-bloody-likely.

Of course he was worried about Harry—but dead? No, Ron was used to Riddle's lies. They had almost destroyed his life.

Ron and Hermione both stood frozen for a moment, staring at one another, before Hermione grabbed his hand and yanked him roughly down the marble staircase. He stumbled over his feet, not yet accustomed to the slightly-too-small boots he had borrowed from Bill—the ones his brother had lent him after Ron had given his only pair of trainers to the elf that had saved them. His family and various members of the DA met them in the wreckage that was once the Entrance Hall.

Not a single word was uttered.

Every witch and wizard was entranced by the words reverberating throughout the room, echoing eerily off the stone walls.

" _He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself—"_

Impossible, Ron thought angrily as he clenched his fists, leaving crescent-shaped cuts in the palms of his already injured hands. His bastard of a best friend would have to have gotten through him first.

But Ron's face paled at the word _killed._

Hermione's hands were in buried in her hair, pulling at the roots in desperation.

Merlin, Harry _middle name Danger_ Potter had one hell of a hero complex. What was it that Hermione had called it?

A _saving-people-thing._

Ever since the end of their fifth year, after the debilitating brain-assault and Sirius's death, Ron had known that his job was to be the best goddamn sidekick that had ever existed. It was as if he was made for it. If he was honest with himself, he had known it far earlier than that; he'd just been too stubborn to admit it.

Yeah, he'd fucked up. Royally. But what could he say? He was seventeen and daft and bloody insecure. But, that stormy night—Fuck, _that night._ The moment he'd taken off the blasted locket and Disapparated from that Welsh riverbank, he'd known without a single doubt what his destiny was meant be—a fucking moment of clarity. It was why he'd tried so desperately to find them after escaping the Snatchers.

Because he knew that even the hero needed someone by his side, steadfast and dependable, prepared to save him if, or more likely, _when_ the time came. Ron knew that he would probably end up leaping in front of Killing Curse for his best mate.

For the Boy Who Lived.

For the Chosen One.

For the Fucking Savior of the Goddamn Wizarding World.

Willingly, and bloody _proudly._

Had he failed in his mission? The one thing that he, Ronald Bilius Weasley, the sixth and least remarkable son of Arthur and Molly Weasley, had been made to do?

" _While you lay down your lives for him."_

'As we would every single goddamn day, you fucking psycho,' thought Ron savagely.

" _We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone."_

Ron choked on his own spit.

His body?

He vaguely registered Ginny's strangled sob.

" _The battle is won—"_

'The battle won't be over until you are!' Ron yelled—or at least, he'd meant to. His lips moved, but his rebuttal was lost in his throat, horror finally washing over him.

" _The Boy Who Lived is finished."_

It had taken them too long to notice that Harry was missing.

Ron cursed his carelessness.

" _Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven—"_

He'd been so caught up with Fred, with holding his mother as she wept onto his shoulder, with George's lifeless stare, as if the light had gone out in him along with his twin, with grasping Hermione's hand like a lifeline as he tried to remain stoic while unshed tears scorched his raw throat…

" _And you will join me in the new world we shall build together."_

The enormity of it all crashed down onto Ron.

Had they… _lost?_

McGonagall and Kingsley had elbowed their way to the front of the crowd, and Ron watched them share a look of resigned defeat. He wanted to shout at them to not give up, that it _wasn't over yet._ Kingsley placed a hand on the Transfiguration professor's shoulder, and she nodded back at him, tears cascading down her cheeks beneath her spectacles, before they both pushed open the oaken front doors of the castle. Light from the Entrance Hall illuminated the ravaged grounds as witches and wizards spilled down the steps of Hogwarts in a somber but oddly frantic mob.

The brief moment of silence chilled him to his bones.

But not nearly as much as the sound that broke it.

"NO!"

Ron had watched the group of black-robed Death Eaters spread out into a line facing the castle, but his mind refused to register the significance of it, nor the identity of the bundle in Hagrid's arms, even though he would recognize that shock of jet black hair anywhere. It wasn't until he heard the Scotswoman's wail that he truly understood what he was seeing.

His stomach gave a nauseated roll as he realized the heinous task Voldemort had forced upon Hagrid—to carry the body of a friend.

To carry the… _corpse._

Hagrid had held Harry like that before: when Harry was only a year old, the day after the murder of his parents. Ron vividly remembered Hagrid recounting the tale as they drank massive mugs of tea together at the scrubbed wooden table in his hut. It had been part of Hagrid's strategy to make Ron forgive Harry after the Goblet of Fire fiasco—

Merlin, he'd been such a rubbish best mate.

His throat burned, but his eyes were strangely dry as his shout of protest followed McGonagall's, with Hermione's and Ginny's joining almost immediately. Ginny's shrill, grief-stricken screams of _"Harry, HARRY!"_ shook him to his very core.

The crowd behind them followed suit, until only seconds later—

" _SILENCE!"_

Ron's mouth continued to move, but no sound came out.

" _It is over!"_

Never.

" _Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!"_

The feet of Lord-fucking-Voldemort?

Unacceptable.

'You hear that, Harry?' Ron thought desperately. 'I can say the bloody name! I can say it now!'

" _You see? Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him."_

Relied on others?

Fuck. No.

Harry would have sacrificed himself thrice over to ensure the safety of every single person fighting that night.

His best friend was _dead._ The person Ron was meant to protect.

But the war wasn't over yet.

Rage bubbled up inside him, like a volcano erupting, spilling out—

"He beat you!" Ron roared, unable to stop himself.

 _And the charm broke._

* * *

 **(A/N):** So, this a new little project of mine! It's not a ~song-fic~, but the lyrics included at the start of this chapter just seemed so poignant to the Harry Potter series that I decided run with it. If you haven't listened to the Hamilton soundtrack yet, GO NOW. Youtube it. Lin-Manuel Miranda a goddamn gift to all mankind.

Yes, a lot of it is going to be centered around death, especially exploring how different characters deal with death, trauma, and their own mortality. But it's also going to focus on the people that were left standing at the end and how they tell the story of those that weren't. It's not going to be chronological nor from the same point of view. Also, I promise I'm not abandoning GTTN! I've just been itching to try my hand at some fully canon-compliant stuff, particularly moments that the reader doesn't get to see in the books.

All direct quotes in this chapter are from DH Ch. 36: "A Flaw in the Plan".

Please let me know what you think in a review!

:)  
liz


	2. Teddy and Victoire

Chapter 2: The Letter

* * *

"And if, by some miracle, it is not like me, then it will be better off, a hundred times so, without a father of whom it must always be ashamed!"  
"Remus!" whispered Hermione, tears in her eyes. "Don't say that — how could any child be ashamed of you?"  
 _—Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,_ J.K. Rowling

* * *

Victoire Weasley had been searching the castle and grounds for a full hour to no avail. She'd checked all of his favorite sulking spots—the Astronomy tower, the memorial, the Quidditch pitch—but he was nowhere to be found.

The last time she'd seen Teddy Lupin had been at breakfast.

* * *

Victoire sipped her coffee as she watched her best mate stroll into the Great Hall, laughing along with his usual group of fellow Hufflepuffs. He slid lazily onto the bench at his house table, then instinctively looked up, quickly scanning the Gryffindor table. A broad grin brightened his face as he caught her eye.

She smiled back, admiring the jet black color he'd chosen for his hair that day. It made him look remarkably like Uncle Harry.

Still smiling, he held up seven fingers. "Seven o'clock?" he mouthed, eyebrows raised in question.

She nodded back, confirming their plans to meet in the library that evening. Though they had been mates since before Victoire could do more than toddle, Hogwarts had complicated their friendship. As she had packed her trunk at age eleven, bright eyed and full to the brim with excitement for her much anticipated first year, her mother had warned her of this possibility.

" _Don't expect things to be same,_ _mon chéri."_

But the two years after Teddy left for school had been the loneliest of Victoire's life, so she'd waved off her mother advice without much thought. It hadn't taken more than ten minutes into her first ride on the Hogwarts Express for her to realize that, as per usual, her _maman_ had been right.

* * *

"Teddy!"

Victoire had just left her parents on the platform, insisting ' _of course I don't need any help!'_ She was a capable witch about to begin her first year at Hogwarts, after all. She lugged her trunk behind her, out of breath and huffing as she searched for an empty compartment. Her eyes lit up when she spotted her best friend a little ways down the corridor, chatting with a girl with short brown hair and a stocky boy with a shaved head. Teddy turned instantly at her call and beamed toothily at the sight of her.

"Vic!" he shouted, bounding toward her and pulling her into one of his customary bone-crushing hugs, even though they had seen each other only a few days before at Gran's end of summer Sunday roast. She swayed slightly as he released her. "Scale of one to Pygmy Puff, how excited are you?" His hair flashed between turquoise, lime green, and neon orange as he spoke.

She scrunched up her nose, thinking. "Remember Uncle George's 'Great Puff Revolt of 2009'?" She paused as he let out a snort. "Ten times more than that, I think."

Teddy roared with laughter and flicked the end of her freckled nose. "Ready for the sort—" he began, but was cut off.

"Who's the shrimp, Ted?" said short haired girl, hands on her hips.

 _Shrimp?_ thought Victoire indignantly. _We are literally the same height, you twit._

"Twit?" the girl retorted hotly.

Oh bugger, had she said that aloud?

She grimaced her embarrassment. Well, at least she hadn't said _you dunghead._ She silently thanked Uncle Charlie for teaching her a few decent insults. Her godfather was her absolute favorite person in the entire world, except for perhaps Teddy.

Teddy glanced over his shoulder apprehensively. As he turned to Victoire with a frown, he mouthed the word _'Sorry'_ before turning his back on her.

"Er, just one of my cousins," he replied dismissively as he walked back to join his friends. "Let's get back to our compartment, shall we?"

 _Cousins?_

She knew that Uncle Harry was practically a father to him, but for some reason, she'd never considered Teddy to be a cousin the same as Jamie, Al, or Lily.

Though Teddy had apologized a few days later, the rejection still stung Victoire to her core.

* * *

It was now five years later. Teddy was in his final year of Hogwarts and she was merely a fifth year. Though both were quite well liked amongst their fellows, they didn't run with the same crowd. He was a Hufflepuff, she was a Gryffindor. He played Chaser for the Hufflepuff Quidditch team; she was pants at flying. A scarlet and gold Prefect badge had arrived with her school letter last summer, but Teddy was now Head Boy, meaning he had far more responsibilities.

Though their free time was woefully limited now more than ever, they tried to see each other as often as possible. It was odd, really. It was as if they were two magnets, and, after a while, the pull to see one another became irresistible. Maybe that's what made them such great friends. Today they'd made plans to revise together—she for her upcoming O.W.L.s, he for N.E.W.T.s. He was ace at Transfiguration, her weakest subject.

Teddy flashed her a thumbs up and began to pile fried eggs and kippers onto his plate.

"Victoire Isabelle Weasley!"

Victoire was jolted from her reverie by two fingers snapping impatiently in front of her face. She started, glancing from side to side, searching for one of the few people brave enough to use her full name.

Ah, of course.

"Yes, Dom?" Victoire sighed as her younger sister glared at her.

Dominique tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder grumpily. "I've been talking to you for a full minute! Merlin, Teddy is _not_ that interesting."

Victoire scowled and chose to take a large bite of muesli rather than respond.

"I was asking if you'd heard from _maman,"_ her sister continued in a huff. "A few weeks ago she wrote to say that she and dad might be at the final match, but it's in two days and I still haven't heard from them!"

Dominique Weasley was in her second year and currently the youngest member of the Gryffindor House Quidditch team. She was a superb Seeker, but the school-wide taunts about her age had begun to affect her confidence. Which was rather unfortunate, really, as the final match of Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff was fast approaching and Hufflepuff had completely swept the competition this season.

"No owl yet, but I'm sure they'll be here," Victoire replied reassuringly. "Probably with Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny, too. They always come to watch Teddy play. Well, unless Uncle Harry is away."

Dominique opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a great _swoop_ and rustling of wings as the morning post arrived. A large tawny owl landed in front of Dominique, knocking over her glass of pumpkin juice.

"Ah, Bruno, not again!" Victoire moaned, using her wand to siphon the mess from the soiled tablecloth while Dominique hastily untied the letter from the owl's leg. Their family owl Bruno clicked his beak, looking affronted at this unfriendly welcome. Feeling guilty, Victoire offered the clumsy owl a slice of bacon.

"They'll be here!" Dominique squealed as she read. "The whole family, Dad says! Even Uncle Charlie is—"

Dominique continued speaking, but her sister was no longer listening. Instead, her eyes were focused on Teddy once again. He had also received a letter, but from an owl Victoire did not recognize. As his eyes scanned down the page, his face grew steadily paler. When he reached the end, he blinked down at the official-looking sheaf of parchment in front of him for a full ten seconds before folding it up neatly and stowing it in the inside pocket of his robes. Then, without another word, he stood stiffly and left the Great Hall.

Victoire hadn't seen Teddy for the rest of the day. Not only had he skipped meals, but he'd also blown off their revision plans. She'd waited in their usual corner of the library, a Pumpkin Pasty awaiting him in the front pocket of her school bag— _he had missed dinner, after all_ —for half an hour before she decided to give in and find him herself. She tracked down his one of his Hufflepuff mates, Connor Harris, in the corridor outside of the Hufflepuff common room, who said with a concerned frown that he hadn't been in class all day either.

She knew that whatever news the letter held, it must have disturbed Teddy greatly. She'd never known him to skive off his responsibilities.

Had something tragic happened? To his Nan? Certainly not to Uncle Harry?

* * *

Victoire slammed the door of the Hufflepuff Quidditch changing room behind her, a deep frown on her face as she leaned back against it. She thought for sure he'd be there, but all she'd found was the Gryffindor team. If he wasn't at the Quidditch pitch, the war memorial, or the Astronomy tower…

She cast her eyes upward to the clear, star-strewn sky.

A full moon gleamed back at her.

 _Oh._

She blinked at it for a moment before taking off at a full sprint across the grounds, heading for the one place she knew he rarely visited.

A few vicious swipes, a levitated branch, and a stooped walk down the tunnel later, and she was inside the Shrieking Shack. She lit her wand silently, examining the bottom floor of the abandoned house. Teddy had confided that he didn't like to come here, that it was just _too much_ because it was where his father had—

She heard the squeak of a rusty bedspring overhead.

She ascended the dilapidated staircase as quietly as possible, holding in a sneeze from the thick layer of dust her footsteps disturbed. She extinguished her wand as soon as she reached the top, noting the faint blue light of Aunt Hermione's favorite bluebell flames emanating from the room across from her. She crossed the landing and found exactly what she expected as she leaned against the door frame. She stood there watching him for a while, transfixed, her forehead creased with concern.

"Feeling melancholy?" she asked softly when she couldn't take the silence any longer.

The man lying on the ragged four-poster bed in the middle of the room grunted.

He didn't seem surprised. He had known she would show up eventually.

She crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed. It exhaled a puff of dust. One hand was behind his head, the other at his side, pointer finger tapping out an unknown rhythm as he stared upward at the cobwebbed slats of the ceiling. His hair was the sandy brown of his natural state, the color he had inherited from his father.

"Going to make me wait all night?" she asked as she laced her fingers with his fidgeting hand.

He froze momentarily before shaking her away. She refused to be offended by it.

She knew Teddy Lupin better than anyone. She knew his strops.

Instead, she chose to lay carefully next to him, on her side, face to the ceiling. She wasn't touching him, but it was near enough for comfort.

They stayed that way for several minutes before he finally spoke.

"I got my letter today," he whispered, voice raspy.

She turned her head to him, and her stomach sank as she finally realized who the letter had been from. His eyes were squeezed shut, and she couldn't stop herself this time. Victoire threw herself onto his chest and hugged him tightly. His arms flew around her instinctively.

"Teddy, I'm so sorry," she murmured into his jumper. The wool was soft and familiar against her cheek. She would recognize a Weasley jumper anywhere. "You're the most qualified applicant! And with Uncle Harry as Head Auror… Merlin, I can't believe—"

"No," he breathed, and she fell silent. "I got my _acceptance_ letter today. In a few months, I'll be a new trainee at the Eldritch Diggory Academy for Aurors."

She sat up abruptly.

 _What. The. Fuck._

"Are you kidding me?" she asked hotly, slapping his chest. His eyes widened in shock at her sudden change in demeanor. "I've been worried about you all bloody day, and you're off brooding because—" She broke off, spluttering over her words as she glared at him. "Because your goddamn _dream_ came true?"

He frowned and pushed her away. "Sod off, Vic. I don't want to do this."

She snarled and threw herself back onto this chest. "I'm not leaving until you explain, you prat."

He laid there stiff as a board, breathing shallowly for several minutes before Victoire began to gently stroke his hair. It morphed to a vivid bubblegum pink as he slowly relaxed.

"Why?" she whispered into his ear as she snuggled closer to him. "This is what you've always wanted."

She felt him swallow heavily.

"My dad," he said finally choked out. "I read a few of his journals over the holidays. Nicked them from Harry's attic. Did you know that he and Sirius both wanted to be Aurors?"

Victoire shook her head.

"Neither were accepted," Teddy continued. "Sirius because he was a Black, but my dad didn't even apply, because, well—" He broke off, biting his lip.

"He was a werewolf," Victoire finished for him. Teddy nodded. "And you're conflicted because you're both a Black _and_ the son of a werewolf."

By look in his eyes, she knew her deduction was spot on.

"I should be happy," he whispered, squeezing Victoire closer to him.

"Fucking hell, you're thinking about this all wrong," she murmured.

His arms went slack.

She'd never been the most tactful person, something her mother often scolded her for, but at the moment, she didn't care. She sat up to face him, her hands splayed on his chest. She felt his pectoral muscles tense beneath her fingers. "Your mother was an Auror. A bloody good one, too. Nymphadora Tonks is all over our history books. Uncle Charlie still talks about her all the time, about how brilliant she was at school and how proud Mad-Eye Moody was to have her as his protégée. I know that tonight is—" Teddy groaned and threw a hand over his face. She slapped it away, forcing him to look her straight in the eyes. His eyes were a beautiful silver color that she knew belonged to the Black family. "Oh shut the fuck up, tonight is the full moon and it's got you all out of sorts. This happens every month. But Merlin, Teddy, your father would be _so bloody proud_ of you if he were here."

"I feel guilty," he whispered, sounding lost. "I know it sounds daft, but why should I be accepted so easily while my father was shunned just because of something that was out of his control? Something that's in me too?"

Her hands were now cupping his cheeks, and she could practically feel her magic thrumming through her fingers.

" _This is the world they fought for,"_ Victoire whispered forcefully, ignoring the tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. She'd never seen him cry before, not even when they were children. "For you, the son of a werewolf, to have every opportunity possible."


End file.
